The Secret
by thefangirllife
Summary: He was broken from the inside. Rated T for language and triggers. Written by Anonymous


Author s Note: This fic contains child abuse. This is a work of fiction.

I own nothing.

The Secret

Sherlock didn't like recalling memories. That's why he deleted them. He didn't want to remember certain things- certain moments. One of those moments had been constantly tickling and prodding at the back of his mind for weeks now.

It was quiet in the flat.

John had gone out for the night. Someone named "Abbigail".  
He sighs, and looks vaguely at the pistol on the coffee table to his right. He could shoot it again, that would be less boring than what he was currently experiencing. He was used to certain things pulling and prodding at his mind, begging to be recalled. But this one was...different. It was demanding to be remembered. He sits back with another long, dramatic sigh, allowing his back to rest against the leather of his armchair, his eyes closing and his fingers to come to rest underneath his chin in the usual position. He sighs, for he knows that he can't take it anymore. He knows he must allow this memory to come back or it will drive him mad. So he lets it.  
A seven year old Sherlock Holmes sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, reading silently. He was a good boy- good marks, respectful...no incidents with authority. The book is one on pirates, Sherlock s favourite subject. He found their thirst for adventure extremely relatable and their bloodlust even more interesting. On most days he would just sit and read. Why would he do anything else? Why exert energy that you must gain back through other means than obtain enormous amounts of information via your own eyes? The particular page that he is examining is dealing with pirates eyepatches. Pirates wore eyepatches for a reason, He read aloud now, his high and hardly audible voice bouncing off the plain walls of the bedroom. While the patch covers one eye, it adjusts to the darkness. The uncovered eye adjusts to the light. In the event that a Pirate would have to go below deck, one eye would always be adjusted to the darkness. That way they could see. The young Holmes face breaks out into an uncontrollable smile, the corners of his mouth stretching to their limit. That s brilliant! He exclaims, and immediately places one hand over his left eye and waiting ten seconds before stepping inside the dark of his small closet and uncovering it. He could see perfectly!

Downstairs, the slamming of the door and a loud crash startle Sherlock out of his momentary bliss. The sound has him wincing. Moments later, heavy footsteps are heard stomping up the stairs, along with muttered curses and obscenities. Sherlock instinctively shuts the closet as quietly as possible and quickly puts his book on the shelf next to his bed and waits.

'Waits and waits and waits and waits and waits and waits...'

He was used to this.

The waiting.

The horrid anticipation.

His breaths are coming suddenly short now, he notices.

The footsteps stop in front of his door.

It started after Mummy died.

Father, unable to handle the grief, took to alcohol as a way to escape from his miserable existence. Mycroft became cold as ice, not even allowing Sherlock to hold his hand while he sobbed over her grave. Mummy had been pure. She had been an Angel. And then...she was gone. Gone like a rose that bloomed once but could never quite bud again. He only wished he knew why then. He could have stopped him- could have saved her- could have done anything to help his wonderful, beautiful, Mummy escape harm. Sherlock knew he was smart. That's why he put up with Father's ruthless beatings. He knew that if he could last through his early years, secondary school and university would be a breeze. All of the other students would struggle- unable to complete their work. But Sherlock was smart. Sherlock was clever. Sherlock was-

"BOY!" An overpowering voice from outside Sherlock's door roared.

'Scared.'

The young brunette could already smell the alcohol laced in his breath, the sweat he was producing from being at the pub too long. That was Sherlock's problem. He saw everything. Even the subtle hints of other women in the house. It could be something as insignificant as an out-of-place tea cup or a slightly shifted lamp, Sherlock always noticed.

He walks slowly to the door and takes a deep breath.

'Calm.'

With shaking hands, he opens the door and allows his incredibly tall father to tower over him.

He hates how much he resembles him. His mother was blonde with a kind smile and angelic features. The only thing he got of her was her eyes; sharp and piercing grey flecked with gold, green, and blue. She never yelled at him for being smart, or not understanding people, or being affected too greatly by his senses. She never got frustrated when his obsessions overtook every conversation he had. She didn t try to medicate him or make him normal.  
She loved him. And he didn't. He would turn his nose up at any requests for treatment, dismissing any claims that Sherlock was autistic. Because Holmes' were perfect. And autism isn't perfect.  
A neurological defect, He would say. Aren t worthy of our attention. His father steps forward, clutching in his hand a fistful of Sherlock's full head of curls and pulling hard, causing him to cry out against his will and wince horribly. A sickening smile crosses his father's face.  
He never understood why he did this to him. At the beginning, it was well-deserved punishment for idiotic things he had done...but now it was purely recreational. Again, he got perfect marks at school, never dirtied the manor, and if he did he would always clean thoroughly afterward.

Father doesn't think twice as he whips Sherlock into the bookshelf next to his bed, sending tens of thick books tumbling toward the ground.

'Textbook-'

'Fiction-'

'Biography-'

Sherlock senses a bruise forming on the back of his head, but doesn't make a sound.

It only gets worse when he screams.

Within seconds, the kicks start to come. Sherlock knows they're coming, curling himself into fetal position to avoid damaging any major organs. It was a ridiculous habit.  
No, he had decided, the fact that he had the habit was ridiculous. He knew that other children s home lives were very different than his. They say that their parents are warm and close and happy. One girl told him that she hugs her father every single night before bed and says I love you. Sherlock tried this, and ended up with a concussion and a broken wrist.  
The first to come is a blow near the small of his back, the next to his shoulder, the next to his tailbone, his thigh- his head- his neck-

They come in quick succession to each other, sending Sherlock's sensory processes into overdrive...as usual.

Whenever he was upset, or angry, or excited...and especially when he was hurt his brain decided to work three times as hard.

He felt every inch of Father's foot slamming into him, smells the leather and whiskey emanating from him-

Hears the strangled gasps and cries that he is so desperately trying to keep inside-  
But all he sees is the blackness of the inside of his eyes.

'Six-

Seven-

Eight-'

The kicks were relentless.

His head is spinning when Father finally stops.

'Three broken ribs...'

He coughed.

'Possible concussion...'

Freak. The door slams- the sound echoing through his subconscious.

A fully-grown Sherlock is awakened out of his seeming trace abruptly by calloused hands shaking his shoulders.

"Sherlock..."

His eyes snap open, met by the welcome sight of John Watson kneeling in front of him, a worried look plastered across his face. He is aware in a matter of seconds that John's hands are on his shoulders, steadying him.

'Unstable-?'

In a split second, the memory that he had just re-lived flashes before him again; images of screams and cold floors and fists and feet- and he knows why John is steadying him.

Knows why his pupils are constricted- his tone drowning in worry.

No more than three seconds later, Sherlock is aware of the wetness on his face and on his still-steepled fingers under his chin- wet. He is aware of the sweat in his curls, collecting above his lips and forehead.

'Why-?'

'Memory.'

'John saw...'

The army doctor regards him with sympathy as his says his name, his quiet voice less than a whisper. "Sherlock,"

The brunette removes his fingers, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, forcing John back a bit. He hangs his head, for he knows that this is an end to their friendship. John had seen him cry-

Seen him shake-

Seen him whimper and whine and sob.

John has seen it all.

People don t look at him the same way after they ve seen him at his most vulnerable, he had observed. They would always smile sympathetically at him whenever he shone any sign of distress, and treated him like a child when he asked for assistance. He guessed it had something to do with his exterior. Cold- distant- unfeeling. Once someone sees beneath that

Sherlock. John s voice is steadier now, and his hand grips the detective s shoulder. Look at me.

The other man did not respond in the slightest.

Sherlock, please.

He lifts his eyes, feeling imaginary bruises forming around them. John s face is twisted in worry and concern, each wrinkle deepened by tension. His eyes are brown orbs boring into Sherlock s crystalline ones.

Conversation between the two men had become exclusive. They mainly communicated through small gestures; a twitch of a lip, a raise of a brow, a timed exhale. But now-

I know. John s eyes spoke.

Sherlock felt many things in that moment. He felt anger at himself for allowing such a stupid slip-up to occur when it was entirely possible for John to see him. He felt happy that the memory was now relived, and therefore it would not annoy him anymore, but also drained now that he had relived it. Above all he felt a new hatred for the man in front of him. He felt hatred because John could just- see- right- through- him. All of the walls, all of the boundaries that he had put up, John broke them down with those fucking orbs. The orbs that broke him and fixed him and saved him and killed him. The orbs that cleared his thoughts when they were at their most clouded. The orbs that penetrated his soul in a way that nothing else ever had. They ruined him and made him all at once.

The brunette launched his thin frame forwards, grasping onto whatever he could reach of John. His jumper, his hair, his jacket. He buried his face in John s scent, feeling the comforting warmth of his jumper on his cheek. Earth-shattering sobs racked the man s body, sending him trembling. His knuckles turn white as he shakes and sobs and grips onto John in a way that suggests that he was the only thing anchoring him to Earth.

In a way, Sherlock guessed, he was.

Shhhh John bit back his own sobs, tangling his fingers in Sherlock s soft raven curls. Shhhh you re safe. It s okay. You re safe.

Safe.

The blonde man steadied Sherlock s back, listening to his slowing sobs with tears of his own now catching on his nose. The man in his arms was clutching him with such desperate need that it made his heart hurt. Sherlock. Sherlock was holding onto him. He carefully, gently, tugged on the man s perfect curls; each movement he made having an underlying question. He did not- above all things- want to hurt Sherlock.

The brunette s cries turned to silent tears within an hour, leaving John s jumper soaked through and Sherlock s body absolutely exhausted.

I m going to put you in bed, okay? John asked quietly, making sure not to overwhelm the detective s ears. With a sluggish nod of consent from the other, John slung Sherlock s arm over his shoulder as softly as he could manage, and half-dragged him into his bedroom.

It was rare that John saw the interior of his flatmate s room. It was small; only a dresser, nightstand, and bed decorated the floor, along with a few crystals and Sherlock s doctorate in Chemistry upon them. John smiled when he saw the certificate. It felt foreign to be inside the room, even under these extremely special circumstances. He lowered his worn friend onto the bed, being as quiet, careful, and gentle as possible. The duvet that Sherlock usually slept with lay at his feet. After a moment of hesitation, John lifted the item and placed it comfortingly atop Sherlock s half-conscious body.

The other sighed and cuddled the blanket into his face and chest.

John couldn t help but giggle at the sight. Sherlock looked human. Vulnerable. Alive. He watched as the detective s breaths slowly evened out, his back rising and falling at a regular rate. He stepped a bit closer to his sleeping friend, taking a semi-comfortable seat just in front of his torso.

John knew Sherlock s darkest secret.

The secret that must have burned within him for years and years and years until now.

The secret of why he is who he is today.

John placed his hand on Sherlock s back, just between his shoulderblades, and rubbed soothing circles into his skin.

John didn t see it, but a small smile tugged at the corner of the sleeping man s mouth.  



End file.
